


Extraction

by idanato



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Attempted Sex, M/M, Mixed POV, Pining, Post-Canon, Self destructive Sylvain, Soft Hubert von Vestra, crest removal, homebrew surgery, medical gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:33:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28217781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idanato/pseuds/idanato
Summary: Sylvain has never wanted his crest, so he turns to the one person who won't mind if he dies on the table to remove it.[Written for the Sylvbert Secret Santa 2020 exchange]
Relationships: Sylvain Jose Gautier/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 12
Kudos: 38





	Extraction

**Author's Note:**

> I rated this story M, which I think appropriately reflects the level of detail in the sex scene, but to be honest I don't know how to rate gore. So please mind the tags, and let me know if you think it should actually be rated explicit let me know and I am happy to adjust the rating. 
> 
> This piece was written for @ghiralewd as part of the Sylvbert Secret Santa exchange run on twitter

It was not the kind of social call Sylvain ever expected to engage in, but here he was with Hubert taking a couple strong drinks in private. Perhaps the most surprising thing about the invitation was that Hubert had accepted at all. They were not friends, and often not even friendly towards each other. Sylvain was almost certain this was the first time they’d been alone together in ages.

The war was already two years behind them, though repairing Fodlan was slow going. Sylvain had assumed he would just ease into the unenviable role of being the face of the Empire in what used to be Faerghus, but the Emperor had seen fit to keep him around Enbarr for some time. Hubert kept assigning him to little roles and tasks, and frankly Sylvain was in no hurry to leave so he lingered without fuss. As the weeks turned into months Sylvain came to learn there was another war going on in the shadows and he let himself slip deep into that fight. All of this culminated in their recent secretive mission to destroy a place called Shambhala. That was when his eyes had been opened to a new possibility for his future.

“So will you do it?” Sylvain repeated himself since Hubert had declined to answer the burning question always at the center of Sylvain’s heart: could his crest be removed? Now that he had seen the dungeons and labs of Shambhala, he believed for the first time that he did not have to live like this. He could be free of the shackles of his birth and finally just be himself.

Hubert’s face remained neutral bordering on mildly irritated as he shifted in his seat. “I am not sure it can be done safely. You could die.”

“I didn’t realize you cared about me so much,” scoffed Sylvain with a false smile. “Come on Hubie, aren’t you dying to figure out how a crest can be removed so that you can save your precious Emperor?”

Hubert’s posture shot straight up as his gleaming green eyes narrowed in on Sylvain, “Don’t cross my lines Sylvain, you won’t enjoy what happens.”

Sylvain was left to wonder which lines exactly had been crossed. Was it calling Hubert _Hubie_ , or playing the Edelgard card? For as much as Hubert had mellowed in the seven years since they were students at Garreg Mach, he was still tightly wound up and always a breath away from fracturing when the right pressure was applied. Learning to subtly bend him to agreeing to things was a game Sylvain had come to love playing. He must have gotten good at it because Hubert readily indulged no one.

Sylvain took a deep breath and locked eyes with Hubert. “I don’t care if removing it kills me, because carrying it all these years is just a slow poison dripping through my veins. It’ll get me whether on your table, or down the line. It’s just a matter of time.”

Hubert’s eyes traced towards the empty glasses that had been full of alcohol at the start of this meeting. His long gloved fingers drummed upon the table as his razor thin lips turned up into an indifferent lopsided grin, “And to think people call me dramatic.”

_What an asshole_. Sylvain sighed and leaned back in his chair, “I know you must think I’m spoiled or ungrateful, but I hate it with every fiber of my being. I want it gone or I don’t want to be. Why do you think I even considered fighting for your side in the war?” A painful choice, but the right one for him. No one from his homeland truly understood, and none of his closest friends followed him on this path. It was just one more weight around his neck that he had to learn to live with.

Hubert studied Sylvain with the same sort of calculating gaze he used when they were back in the war room and planning out battles. It was a shrewd, cold look that made Sylvain feel like little more than a minor piece on a game board. “You’re such a waste of potential Gautier,” muttered Hubert as he poured himself another small drink. He prepared Sylvain another without bothering to ask if he actually wanted more; Sylvain always wanted more. “No one is asking you to prove your loyalty to our cause, and no one would dream of demanding that you remove your crest. So why are you so damned insistent?”

“Because I’ll never be able to be myself, not truly, as long as it’s in me,” said Sylvain before taking his drink in one go. “I don’t know where it stops and I begin.”

Hubert’s thin eyebrows raised in disbelief at the way Sylvain had just unceremoniously downed the vintage whiskey. They settled back down, the surprise gone, as Hubert stared at Sylvain with a difficult to parse look. It almost seemed like concern, but Sylvain knew better than to think that Hubert cared for anyone beyond Edelgard. Finally, Hubert spoke, “How can you be certain you will prefer what will is left when it’s gone?”

Sylvain put his glass mouth side down upon the antique card table they were sitting at, “Only one way to find out.”

He noted the way Hubert twitched at the slow drip of residual liquor droplets hitting the wood and leaving a ring. “Fine. However, I want it in writing that you understand full well you will probably die from this. I don’t need anyone thinking that I murdered you.” He sighed and grabbed Sylvain’s glass so he could wipe the table dry with one of his monogrammed handkerchiefs, “If you tell anyone of our intentions, they will stop us. No one will understand this.”

“But you do,” said Sylvain as he watched Hubert collecting up the evidence of their meeting. Part of him was burning for one person to just understand him. His friends had failed to grasp his choices in the war, but perhaps this unlikely ally might appreciate his hatred for his crest.

Hubert shook his head. “No, I don’t, but I don’t need to understand your reasons. It is clear this is what you desire for yourself, and who am I to tell you your mind?” asked Hubert with indifference as he rose from his chair. His normal annoyed affect returned to bite, “Besides I’d rather experiment on you than someone I truly care about. Even if it doesn’t work that will still be useful information.” Sylvain felt a burning rush through his chest as he realized Hubert was actually going to try and extract his crest, no more questions asked.

“Wait, Hubert, I grabbed this, you’ll want to look it over,” said Sylvain as he produced the book on crest experiments he’d nicked from the depths of Shambhala. Hubert regarded it with a wary silence, but nodded and tucked it discreetly into his arms before taking his leave.

***

The idea that his crest could be removed had been born in an underground room full of horror. The walls were lined with what at first appeared to be weapons, but only later did Sylvain realize they were surgical tools. The ceiling itself disappeared into darkness with only long hooked chains hanging down as if it were a butcher’s storage. At the center there was a large slab table engraved with a dark magic symbol. Well used leather restraints dotted each corner of the table, with a big leather belt at its center. A huge diagram dominated the northern wall depicting a body with dark magic spell circles surrounding it. The whole place reeked of blood.

“What is this room for?” demanded Hubert as his grip tightened around the neck of the dark mage they’d captured alive to give them the tour of Shambhala after they’d finished killing off the majority of the Agarthans within. His green eyes were as wild as Sylvain had ever seen them as Hubert interrogated their prisoner.

“Crest extraction,” managed the Agarthan mage before Hubert drug him to the next horrid room down the hall. Sylvain lingered to look as the word extraction echoed in his mind. It dawned upon him that the room was an operating theater where crests were harvested to fulfill the Agarthans’ greater goals.

In the weeks since massacring the Agarthans’ base, Edelgard and Hubert had been arguing over its fate. The Emperor astutely reasoned that the Agarthans were not all centralized in that hole, and that the longer it lingered, the higher the chance it could be taken back. Hubert saw the place as a grim opportunity to pick apart the secrets of their enemies and to work to find a cure for the Crest of Flames presently killing his liege. Sylvain was not privy to the conversations between the Emperor and her most trusted adviser behind closed doors, but the outcome was clear. Hubert had failed to convince Edelgard of the potential utility of the place, and it would be fully destroyed eminently.

Now he and Hubert were riding back to that damned pit under the guise of collecting resources before the wrecking crews descended. The surgery could probably be done in Enbarr but there was a higher chance they’d be caught and stopped. Sylvain had already done his share of sampling for opinions about experimental removal of a crest; Dorothea thought it sounded barbaric, Linhardt did not think the patient could survive without their crest, and Mercedes quietly suggested she would not want to lose that which had been given by the goddess. It felt like everyone he spoke to agreed that a crest that one had been born with ought to just be left alone and accepted. Sylvain alone refused that notion.

With each passing tree Sylvain wondered if he would see them coming back. Was this worth the risk of never hearing a bird song again, the sun on his face, or the breeze through his hair? Was it worth never feeling another body against his or the pleasure of someone whispering his name with longing in the dark? Perhaps even if he survived he would finally learn the truth that all anyone wanted all along was his crest. Sylvain’s fingers tightened around the reins of his horse as he forced his mind away from that dark line of questioning.

Sylvain’s gaze filtered over to Hubert on his black steed. Hubert was not one to delight in a horse ride or travel for the sake of it. He did not look as if he were enjoying a single moment of this journey, but perhaps that was just the way his face had permanently set from too much scowling. He did not even attempt to make conversation, but Sylvain had known what he was getting himself into when he sought out this particular partner for the road.

They had battled alongside each other during the war as dark knights, though their fighting styles had been decidedly different. Sylvain knew spells, and he could wreck some real damage with a tome, but he always relied on the Lance of Ruin above all else. The thing was deadly and merciless in his hands, though it was difficult to know where its bloodlust stopped and his began. In contrast, Hubert rarely used physical weapons, and instead brought death upon his enemies with his crackling dark magic that turned the air bitter tasting and cold all around them.

They had spent plenty of time together off the battlefield as well, but always surrounded by other people. Hubert, one-on-one, was difficult to get along with but in a big group he could just filter to the back and observe. Sylvain had watched him shrink away from social interaction more and more as the war wore on; it was like he recognized his only words were cutting, and that it was better if he did not speak at all among those he considered friends.

For his part, Sylvain enjoyed Hubert’s jabs and insults. It was a fun mental challenge to come up with something better than von Vestra and Sylvain craved any tests of skill that did not employ his crest. However Sylvain found that he was at a loss for conversation topics that didn’t have to do with crest removal as they camped for the first night. He fell back on Hubert’s only other sure interest, the Emperor.

“So how’s the wedding planning going?” Sylvain asked as he built the fire. The upcoming imperial nuptials was all anyone was talking about.

Hubert’s posture stiffened as he finished assembling their food for the night, “I assume it is going well.”

“Oh, the Prime Minister and Emperor aren’t inviting you into the preparations?” probed Sylvain. “I thought you three did _everything_ together.” That was the rumor anyway, and it had started long before the war was through. The Emperor and her two jewels were rarely seen without at least one of the others at their side. Now that Ferdinand and Edelgard were entering into a political marriage it was assumed that Hubert was the unspoken third element of their relationship.

Sylvain noted the small blood vessel bulging across Hubert’s temple and the way his jaw was clenched at the direction of the conversation. “I do not understand where you got the idea that I am involved with that matter,” he said in a wooden voice.

Sylvain decided a direct strike would be most fruitful, “Well the rumor is that you’re quite involved with both of them, at the same time.”

Hubert stopped what he was doing and shot a warning stare in Sylvain’s direction, “A rumor is all it is I assure you.” He returned to finalizing the preparations before setting their meal over the fire. “I serve at their pleasure, that is all. There are certain places I am needed, and others where I most assuredly am not required, including their bedroom.”

“If you say so,” shrugged Sylvain. He was unsurprised by Hubert’s fiercely guarded personal life, but now he’d run out of conversation topics. “So what are you going to do? Is a political marriage on your horizon?”

Hubert scowled at the food, “Not that I am aware of.”

“Really—”

Hubert stopped what he was doing once more to glare at Sylvain, “Stop asking questions about me. Let’s talk about you instead. What are your intentions for House Gautier now that you are destroying the one thing that gave you any worth?”

Sylvain’s mouth softly shut as he thought about the legacy he was burning to the ground. He contemplated it while Hubert aggressively mixed the stew they were waiting on. “Assuming I survive? There will be no more Lance of Ruin, and so no more need for House Gautier and its archaic rules.” He looked at his hands which were so accustomed to fighting with that wretched relic that any other weapon felt wrong in his hands. “I want to fix things with Sreng, but not through war. I’ll do it diplomatically. That’s my plan.”

“Admirable,” muttered Hubert as he sat back to watch their dinner simmering. “But what happens to your lands and holdings? Who gets those when you pass?”

Sylvain whistled with indifference. “If I die during this procedure, it’s anyone’s guess. I assume Adrestia will just appoint some asshole to go rule it.”

“You didn’t even leave a will?” Hubert’s lip curled up, “Ah perhaps that will be my reward for doing this, your old title.”

Sylvain didn’t expect the sarcastic quip to get under his skin so effectively, “I doubt you’d ever leave Enbarr as long as Edelgard was there.”

“You’d be surprised what I’m willing to do,” said Hubert off handedly before taste-testing the stew. He frowned and tossed in more seasoning than Sylvain would have thought necessary.

In Sylvain’s opinion, it would be a total shock to see Hubert volunteering to leave Edelgard’s side, and yet here he was out in the woods riding very far away from her to do something that she would absolutely attempt to block if she knew what was happening. Sylvain pursed his lips as he considered the ease at which Hubert had agreed to this trip, and that he had dropped everything on his plate to do it. “You couldn’t wait for an excuse to get away could you?”

“I don’t know what you’re referring to,” said Hubert without sparing Sylvain so much as a glance.

Sylvain gestured to the woods around them, “You don’t want to be in Enbarr, you don’t want to be around _them_.” Maybe there was more to this Ferdinand and Edelgard rumor than Hubert was letting on.

Hubert sent a bowl of over salted lukewarm stew Sylvain’s way, “I assure you I am not running from Enbarr or any of its occupants. I am here because you asked me to do this.” Sylvain wasn’t buying that for a moment but Hubert’s motives really did not matter when all was said and done.

***

“Shambhala, more like Shambleshala, am I right?” jested Sylvain as they took in the ominous black stone entrance to the once thriving lair of the Agarthans.

Hubert rolled his eyes and conversed with the posted guards instead. “We’ll need today and tomorrow to explore.”

“Will you require an escort sir?” asked the soldier as his eyes glossed over the forged signatures of her majesty. It was unlikely anyone in a position so low had ever even seen Edelgard, let alone her signature, but Hubert had put extra effort into making it look as real as possible.

“No escort is required, we are merely trying to identify and procure anything of potential use or value before you destroy the place,” said Hubert as he plucked the fake missive away before it could be too closely scrutinized. “I apologize for the delay in your work, but like I said, it is only two days.”

“Of course Minister von Vestra,” said the soldier before saluting.

The lights of Shambhala had gone out permanently when their power source was destroyed during the siege. That left the pair with torches to see their way through the damp and pitch black ruin. Each soggy foot step seemed to echo as if to announce they were the only living things down there.

The whole place had been mapped following the aftermath of the battle, and now Sylvain walked with his hand along the wall to his right counting rooms. Every once and a while he’d sense some motion, rats he hoped, or hear some metallic groan as the contraptions buried deep in this place sputtered and slowly died. Shambhala was a decaying maze and it took hours for them to finally descend to the level they needed to be at.

“These are the barracks, do we sleep in here tonight?” The hour was late and Sylvain did want to ensure Hubert was well rested prior to the surgery. The last thing he needed was the mage’s hands getting shaky from too much coffee.

Hubert paused as he illuminated the entryway and the rows of abandoned bunks. “I want to examine the crest removal room, and make sure everything is ready for the morning.”

The operating theater was much like Sylvain remembered. A great big iron chandelier took some time to get lit up and set in place, but it helped with the scarce lighting. Rows of dark seating extended up both walls, disappearing into darkness, and Sylvain could imagine them packed and crowded with eager dark mages ready to watch a slaughter. Hubert began to collect what he needed while keeping his nose in his crest extraction book.

Sylvain opened his pack and pulled free the nice bottle of brandy he’d saved for what could be his last night. “Do you mind if I have a drink?”

“I do not suggest getting drunk right before a major surgery,” said Hubert in a dry voice as he continued to organize his tools. “But if it’s just one drink, I will have one too.”

Sylvain hopped up to the operating table and poured out two glasses of liquor. Eventually Hubert came to join him and they toasted each other in silence. “If you’re having second thoughts, now would be the time to air them out,” said Hubert as he inspected a pair of forceps.

“Honestly if you want to get started now, I wouldn’t stop you,” said Sylvain as he unbuttoned the top of his shirt. There was an uncomfortable ambient heat and humidity as they got lower and lower through Shambhala. It was beginning to feel suffocating.

Hubert looked down at his half finished drink, “Let us not add the complication of me doing this less than perfectly sober.” With that he placed the tools down and joined Sylvain sitting on the elevated table. Hubert’s gloved hands idly played with the leather strap nearest him as Sylvain studied the markings on the wall.

“This is not what I would have expected you to desire,” admitted Hubert as he took Sylvain in. In the dim lighting his eyes seemed darker than usual and strangely less calculating. “I took you for someone who would marry as soon as possible, breed out a few heirs and settle in for a long haul of rule over that frozen waste you call home.”

Sylvain could hardly fault Hubert for being fooled by his carefully crafted facade. The skirt chaser, the hard partier, the proudly crested fool. He’d come to Garreg Mach having already perfected his persona, and Hubert had never known him before that. “Adhering to tradition was never really what I had in mind.”

Hubert raised his glass to the sentiment. “No I suppose if it was you and I wouldn’t be here tonight.”

Sylvain scratched at his temple and looked at the empty rows of seats, “I think if I had someone, if I wasn’t alone, I wouldn’t be brave enough to risk my neck like this.”

“Alone? From the war camps I recall you not even knowing the names of half the people sliding across your bedroll,” said Hubert, contempt dripping in his voice.

Sylvain wasn’t proud of it, but he couldn’t deny it so he just shrugged instead. “And I remember you being someone who went to bed at nine every night, alone, and rising before dawn.” He finished his drink, “Unless you had someone chained up in your tent I didn’t know about.”

He had expected to get a sneer or a grimace at the dark joke, but Hubert just looked quiet and contemplative. “Alas, no. I thought I had connected with someone, but I was wrong,” said Hubert as he looked down at his glass and the amber liquid slowly swirling within.

“Someone I know—” started Sylvain.

“Don’t push it, you could still survive tomorrow and I’d rather not have you running around with that knowledge in your head,” said Hubert. He drew in a long breath through his nose, “I misread empty, meaningless banter for something deeper.”

“How do you know it was meaningless?” asked Sylvain, now keenly interested in discovering Hubert’s guarded secret.

Hubert sighed as he stared at Sylvain. “I thought I had been invited back to someone’s tent for,” he paused, licking his lips with uncertainty, “I don’t know what, drinks maybe, or perhaps a chat to get to know each other. When I finally worked up the courage to go I found that two others had beaten me to the punch, and it sounded like the group of them were intimately acquainted.” His voice grew cold, “I then realized that my would be suitor was merely having a joke at my expense. I had been too enamored to realize I was not being objective in my assessment of them. Had I paused to actually analyze the situation, I would have realized it was not a real offer and spared myself the false hope.”

“Can I guess who it was, please tell me it was Dorothea—” started Sylvain.

“No, not Dorothea.” Hubert cast his gaze at the floor, “Go on, have your last laugh then. This is what I get for telling you anything personal.” He finished his drink and set the glass aside.

“I’m not laughing,” lied Sylvain. He looked Hubert over with a renewed shrewdness; was it possible Vestra had been with no one in his twenty-seven miserable years on the planet? “You know I always took you as the type to approach things like a business transaction. You’re rich and you’re busy, I just assumed you paid someone to meet your needs as quickly as possible.”

“I’d prefer not to be with a stranger thank you,” muttered Hubert as his posture finally sagged away from his usual perfect poise. He looked as if he were the one going under the knife tomorrow with the way he was holding himself. “It is fine though, I am more suited to being on my own.”

It was a sad sentiment that Sylvain shared. He didn’t trust anyone anymore that got close to him; there was always the lingering doubt that they were only there for the crest. Yet here he was with someone actively working to remove that nagging anxiety. If Hubert wanted Sylvain for his crest, he would not be here preparing to rip it out.

“I’m not a stranger,” offered Sylvain as he looked Hubert over. He was met with a sneer at the suggestion. Sylvain doubled down on his offer. “You know, I’ve spent a lot of time using people to distract myself for a little while, and not much time giving anything back,” said Sylvain slowly as he edged closer to Hubert.

“I don’t want your pity,” seethed Hubert as he inched away.

“It’s not pity, it’s atonement,” said Sylvain as he took the mage by the wrist and laid a kiss onto the bone white skin. Hubert froze in stunned silence as Sylvain watched him for a reaction. Hubert just stared, no words daring to form upon his lips.

Hubert was always so quick with a snipe or a jeer, so to hear nothing at all from him was a surprise. Yet if Hubert was unwilling, Sylvain met no resistance as he plucked up Hubert’s other wrist and eased him down onto the table. If Sylvain was to die tomorrow, he could at least have one last pleasing encounter tonight.

Sylvain was quiet, still waiting for a response that never came, as he placed Hubert into the leather restraints of the operating table. There was just a tense silence between them as Hubert watched Sylvain no longer with contempt and mockery, but with a mix of apprehension and anticipation. Having studied him for years in battle and playing him in chess, Sylvain knew Hubert’s strength was in predicting the enemy’s movements and executing counter strikes or contingencies with rapid speed. Yet here Sylvain was doing something that he could tell Hubert had never accounted for as a possibility.

The plain fact was that Vestra clearly had no idea what to do and so he was lying as motionless as if he were dead. Sylvain reached out and ran a finger along Hubert’s lips, “I’ve made a lot of people feel bad over the years, so for my last night I’d like to make you feel good, just to prove to myself I can if I try.”

Hubert just nodded and Sylvain figured that was as close to a yes as he was going to get. Undoing the mage’s shirt revealed Hubert’s pale caved in chest and sparse patches of black hairs. Sylvain didn’t usually waste that much time with foreplay but if this was going to be the last time he had sex he wanted it to be as drawn out as possible. He started with a kiss to see how his captive would respond to the touch.

Sylvain was returned with a clumsy kiss that tasted of brandy before he began his descent away from Hubert’s lips and down towards his neck. Sylvain had been with plenty of screamers, loud moaners, and gratuitous groan givers, but Hubert was dead silent save for his breath hitching in his throat as Sylvain’s hand moved down to Hubert’s groin to rub. Hubert’s eyes were fixed on the chandelier as Sylvain increased the pressure he was using. Sylvain was used to being the object of attention during sex, not the ignored party, and so he decided to do something Hubert couldn’t look past.

The mages pants were easily undone and pulled free, leaving behind all his complicated waist stays and garters in place. If Hubert was anything it was a stickler for decorum. Even out here when it was just the two of them deep in the earth he was in his full uniform as if there would be a sudden inspection that his socks were at the exact prescribed height recommended in the Adrestian military handbook. In a strange way it was comforting to Sylvain; if anyone was going to do this crest removal procedure to the letter it was Hubert.

“Is all this for me?” teased Sylvain as he pulled one of the little straps and let it snap back against Hubert’s skin.

“Do you want me to remove them?” asked Hubert in a tight quiet voice. Finally he spoke.

Sylvain continued to play with the little harnesses, tightening them slightly so they dug into the mage’s skin, “No, I like them on.” Sylvain smirked at how hard Hubert already was from the scant interaction before starting to play a bit with his captive’s cock. “So what do I do with you now that I’ve caught you?”

Hubert swallowed and nodded along as if he’d finally accepted this was real and happening. “You may use me as you wish, since this is more likely than not your last night.” At least a little of his bite was back; Sylvain had been growing worried he’d managed to fully break the mage with this interaction.

“That’s what you like isn’t it, to be of service?” said Sylvain, letting a little false contempt into his voice. “But now the war’s over, Edelgard and Ferdinand have each other, and they don’t seem to need you anymore.” He slid a hand along the inside of one of Hubert’s thighs. “No one needs Minister von Vestra.”

Hubert shuddered as he squeezed his eyes shut. “You need me,” whispered Hubert. His eyes opened back up and for the first time in Sylvain’s memory he saw vulnerability within them.

Sylvain nodded as he stared back, “Why don’t you tell me about it?”

Hubert seemed to gain a little confidence from the encouragement. “You need me to remove your crest, and maybe you need me for this tonight too.”

Sylvain could work with that narrative. He ran his fingers through Hubert’s hair and then pulled tight eliciting a small yet satisfying cry from the mage, “You’re right, I need to be inside you.”

“What are you waiting for, a formal invitation?” asked Hubert with irritation as he spread his legs. He seemed to be over the shock of the initiation, and settling back into his curmudgeonly ways. That was good though, Sylvain did not need someone to worship him; he fed off of Hubert’s apparent disdain. Hubert was immune to the charms of the crest of Gautier, in fact he seemed to reject them outright. That had always made him attractive in Sylvain’s eyes.

Sylvain couldn’t help but grin in disbelief at the way the night had headed as he started trying to massage the uptight minister into submission. Despite having been through the same war, Hubert had come out much less scathed than Sylvain. There were some scars, but nothing too deep. Hubert never let anyone, especially an enemy, get this close to him. Sylvain was sure of that much with the way Hubert’s body twitched and jumped at every little touch.

Sylvain felt a wave of arousal course through him as he fixed the big belt restraint tight across Hubert’s stomach. He tilted his head in a teasing manner, “I better loosen this a little, I want to leave some room for what I’m going to unload in you.”

Hubert’s eyes settled on the growing bulge in Sylvain’s pants. Little beads of sweat were forming on his forehead and his breathing was fast and uncertain even as he tried to look perfectly calm. Sylvain proceeded to dance his fingers over Hubert’s lips and then pushed them inside the mage’s mouth. He probed around letting them get slick, “I’m going to wreck you von Vestra.”

“Do your worst,” managed Hubert as Sylvain’s fingers withdrew and descended. He sounded like the pinnacle of confidence but his eyes betrayed his fear. Sylvain need not ask if this was the first time anyone had held Hubert in such a compromised position.

Sylvain smirked as he undid his own pants to pull out his cock. He made sure Hubert could get a good view of it as he slid his hand up and down its length while he worked himself up, “Are you sure you can handle this? I’m worried I might split you in two.”

Hubert glowered at Sylvain but had no response as Sylvain’s spit covered fingers started to explore him. Sylvain went hard at first but quickly realized that was not the right approach. Sylvain stopped pretending to want to hurt Hubert and switched to a much more gentle touch. It did not matter, he met complete resistance. It seemed Hubert was somehow getting tighter, not looser, despite Sylvain’s well practiced efforts. After several minutes of total failure, Sylvain sat back and rested his hands on Hubert’s knobby knees. “Hubert you have to relax.”

Hubert’s chest was rising and falling fast, “I’m not sure that’s possible.” Tears were brimming in his eyes and Sylvain honestly couldn’t tell if they were from frustration with himself or pain, or perhaps a mix of both.

“It’s alright, there are other things we can do,” offered Sylvain, his contempt melting away as he gave Hubert’s legs what he hoped was a reassuring squeeze. Sylvain had enough experience to recognize Hubert wasn’t going to be ready for this tonight. He was a person who probably needed time and trust to open up and the scant hours until morning would never be enough to get them to that point.

Hubert’s eyes shut with defeat as if he were considering the costs and benefits of warping out of there. “Let me up.” Sylvain undid the restraints and Hubert was quick to get off the table and pull his clothes back on. “This was stupid, and just as fake as last time—”

“Last time?”

Hubert froze for several beats before rapidly doing his shirt buttons. “Never mind.” His potent embarrassment bled out of his every move.

_Last time_. The pieces fell into place from Hubert’s story about misreading someone. “Whose tent did you show up to?” asked Sylvain even as he was sure it was his.

Hubert finished tucking in his shirt and looked like he’d just gotten a whiff of rot, “Rest up Gautier, you have a big day tomorrow.” He stormed from the room leaving Sylvain alone.

Sylvain let out a whistle as he contemplated how poorly that had gone. ‘Accidental’ death stared back at him as the likely outcome of tomorrow as vengeance for Hubert’s humiliation. Yet he was still aroused now, and there was no harm in a final wank to idle away his remaining hours. Yet as he worked himself all he could think about was Hubert performing the crest extraction surgery.

Sylvain laid down upon the table and tried to imagine what it would be like in the morning to be cut apart. Candlelight flickered against the torturous looking devices on the wall that would soon be used to pry his chest open. He shut his eyes and pictured Hubert looming over him, bone chisel in hand and primed to strike. While this was not the first time Sylvain had gotten himself off to picturing Hubert, this was by far the most unusual fantasy he’d ever come up with concerning von Vestra.

Sylvain had flirted with Hubert during the war, quite often really. It was a game to him to see how Hubert would respond and how far Sylvain could push things. Hubert had been the ultimate challenge, and besides it was fun to get a rare rise out of him. This had culminated in inviting him to his tent one day. However as the hours drug on and evening turned into night without Hubert showing, Sylvain got impatient and turned to a few sure yeses to blow off some steam. Vestra had gotten distant after that but Sylvain was sure it was only because the invitation had been the final step that took things too far. Now he knew the truth of it.

He’d assumed Hubert had agreed to this crazy procedure only to help Edelgard, or to get away whatever was or wasn’t happening between the Emperor and her closest ministers. Sylvain had not accounted for the possibility that Hubert _actually_ cared and was doing this for Sylvain’s sake alone. He wasn’t sure that anyone ever truly had done something so big just for him instead of his crest, and he wasn’t sure how to feel about that fact. He leaned into though and let the surgeon Hubert fade into the nervous one approaching his tent late at night, only Sylvain let things play out in his imagination as if he hadn’t double booked himself that particular night.

Sylvain woke on the operating table to a sore back, a dry mouth and an empty stomach. Hubert was milling about the theater making his last minute preparations. Sylvain dared to dig through his satchel to find something to ease his nerves and his hunger. Sylvain almost had a stale biscuit in his mouth before Hubert swiftly swatted it to the ground. “No eating before surgery,” snapped Hubert as he adjusted his magnifying glasses and returned his gaze to the Agarthan manual. Whatever soft interest he had shown last night was deeply buried away.

“You do know how to do heal, right?” asked Sylvain. Suddenly he wished he had forced Mercedes or Linhardt along on this trip as well.

“In theory,” said Hubert as he snapped his book shut. “Now lay down.” His fingers were icy as they pulled Sylvain’s wrists towards the leather straps where just the night before Hubert had been pinned in place.

“You know you don’t have to do this,” suggested Sylvain as Hubert fixed the belt around his middle, leaving no extra room.

Hubert paused with annoyance as his eyes flicked over his patient. “Are you getting cold feet, I thought you needed your crest removed?” His mocking bedside manner left much to be desired.

“I do, but, I don’t need my blood on your hands, let someone else try,” said Sylvain as he watched Hubert’s face changing slightly at the suggestion.

“You know no one else will agree to this.” Hubert ran his tongue along his teeth as he looked at Sylvain shirtless on the table and then to the frightful tools he’d laid out and meticulously sanitized. “Besides I have plenty of blood on my hands, I won’t even notice yours.”

“I think you will,” said Sylvain as he took a long look at Hubert. “And I don’t want that guilt for you.”

Hubert drew in a deep breath and then shook his head. “It has to be me or you have to accept your crest will always be a part of you.”

Sylvain felt his heart pounding as he considered the choice. He wasn’t exaggerating when he said it was going to kill him. He’d thought about it far too often to cheerfully lie and say he’d changed his mind. He’d never change his mind, he’d always wanted it gone and he’d always regret passing up this opportunity. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to live with that. “Do it.” The last thing Sylvain saw was the green gleam of Hubert’s eyes as the mage’s noxious rag sent him into darkness.

Hubert ran one gloved finger along Sylvain’s freckled collarbone as he looked at the instructions in his ill gotten Agarthan manual. From its pages he had learned that crest bearers naturally had a build up of calcified tissue on the surface of the sack that surrounded their hearts. As it got bigger the powers of the crest would manifest having finally taken on their physical form. Removing it was difficult and damaging, and stones grew with age making it extra dangerous to perform on an adult. However, one could not make a souffle without cracking an egg. Hubert hoped the permanent damage would not be too bad if Sylvain survived.

It was a big if. Hubert stared at the slack handsome face that haunted his dreams for an uncomfortable time during the war. Last night had been the total failure Hubert had always known such an interaction would be. If Sylvain woke up, he’d likely keep his distance afterward and that was ideal. With his crest finally out perhaps he’d stop trying to destroy himself for once, and that was enough of a reward for Hubert. A small selfish voice inside him quietly suggested that Sylvain would need help with his recovery and Hubert would be there conveniently to provide it. Hubert’s stomach twisted; there was a huge gulf between being needed and actually being wanted.

Sylvain had plenty of wants and needs and none of them were straight forward. It was a curious choice to wish to remove the thing that to anyone else seemed a satin bow upon an already perfect package. It annoyed Hubert in school; Sylvain’s easily built muscles and natural strength were the bane of Hubert’s time in the training yard. They were equal in their status in their respective homelands, both to be future Marquis and Margraves respectively, but Sylvain was clearly the superior pupil in charm, popularity, and looks. If only he were only also stupid to boot, Hubert might not have been so affected by the fool’s bravado and irritating cadence. Yet beneath the glamor Sylvain was cunning in his own way, as threatening as Hubert when he wanted to be, and colder than the winds of Faerghus.

It was possible without the crest people might not worship Sylvain. Perhaps all that would be left was that icy manipulator and people would be repelled. Yet that was the very person Hubert always thirsted to coax out and understand. That was the Sylvain he longed to challenge, to verbally spar, and wrestle about with each other in their own way. It was the Sylvain he’d had for a few precious moments last night before Hubert’s own inability to relax had sabotaged things.

Hubert took a deep breath as he tried to focus on the memory of Sylvain’s lips upon him as he started adding adding the leeches, wriggling in their bowl, to Sylvain’s skin. Forty six leeches, apparently, was what the book called for given Sylvain’s mass. Hubert dutifully placed them up and down Gautier’s exposed flesh with forceps while imagining that instead of a disgusting bottom feeding bloodsucker that each one was instead a kiss. He sat and waited for the twisting, greedy parasites to get nice and plump sucking Sylvain off before preparing himself to go inside.

“This is going to be excruciating,” said Hubert out loud though Sylvain was still fully knocked out. The chemicals merely made him limp, they would do nothing for the sensations and so Hubert planned to move as quickly as possible.

He had memorized the accursed manual for crest extraction. He had even practiced, in the utmost secrecy, on dead bodies in Enbarr in anticipation of the trip. Yet it was different to do it on someone alive and whose heart was still beating. Someone whom, against his better judgment, he craved.

The instructions haunted him. _First enter the chest along the sternum by sawing down its middle. Use the spreader to stretch the opening just enough to get a hand inside; do not worry, it will move with enough encouragement. Timing is of the essence. Slip your preferred hand into the opening and probe along the fibrous casing of the heart to locate the crest stone. It is most often on the right lateral aspect; if you find it is along the posterior margin, assume the patient will be lost. Perform the spell against the stone to work it free._ It brutally continued on as if Hubert were merely preparing a cut of meat for dinner and not about to perform surgery on a man he both loathed and wanted to be loved by.

Hubert readied his slim knife and began his incision along the Sylvain’s sternum. The hot blood rushing out was to be expected, although Hubert was meticulous. These were just superficial, although if he failed to preserve the arteries that coursed along the anterior thorax then things would become dire. The skin parted from the bone beneath it with the right encouragement as Hubert got out a toothy saw. This was the part he dreaded most. He had to cut open Sylvain’s chest and wrench it apart with the wretched metal stretchers. Those would hold Sylvain’s chest gaping open waiting for Hubert to find the stone.

All his careful preparation and study failed to prepare him from the small, but growing, sounds of pain crossing Sylvain’s lips. Each note of agony floated up to Hubert’s ears and mixed with the steady sound of sawing bone. A bloody mix of fatty marrow oozed out as Hubert broke through. He rushed to add the spreader and with each metallic sigh of the gears there was a cracking noise coming from Sylvain’s ribs. When Hubert had gotten the two ends of Sylvain’s sternum as far apart as he could, he paused to look inside.

Although Hubert had lit up as many candles as the place contained, Sylvain’s body was full of shadows within save for the faint glow of the crest stone deeply buried in his flesh. It was tempting to perform a healing spell and call the whole thing off as Sylvain, weeping now and making disoriented sounds of waking, struggle against his restraints. Hubert inhaled sharply; failure was not an option. For Sylvain this was a matter of life and death, and Hubert was determined not to let him go, not willingly anyway.

Hubert removed his gloves. His fingers slipped and slid as they brushed up against the warm smooth silky layers containing moving lungs. The manual warned these translucent wet sacs were as fragile as butterfly wings. Sylvain let out a long low moan filled with pain and Hubert was sure for a moment Sylvain would descend into shock. “Almost there Gautier, give me a minute,” promised Hubert. A minute was likely all he had at the rate the blood was spilling out. It felt too fast, too messy, to be right.

Hubert stared up at the large diagram of the surgery on the wall as his fingers touched the marvel that was Sylvain’s steady beating heart. The stone could have formed anywhere, and if it was too deeply buried this would not work. Desperately, Hubert blindly probed until he hit something hard. It had to be it.

“Got you bastard,” hissed Hubert as he focused on the spell. It was hard to concentrate as Sylvain’s heart bucked and protested against this invasion. The stone stayed put through the dark magic assault. A stinging numbness crept up Hubert’s fingers as he struggled to keep his hold. Sylvain’s rapidly beating heart seemed primed to burst out of its pearly white casing at any moment. The crest would not budge.

The leeches had been steadily weakening the crest’s defenses, but made the blood loss more emergent. Hubert needed the vicious thing free now. A horrid high pitch scream filled his ears and for a moment Hubert mistook the sound as coming from Sylvain. The tone that was rattling in his brain was from the stone itself. By now Hubert’s arm was numb up through the elbow with the icy pain creeping up his shoulder, which only made his own vengeful magic burn brighter in retaliation. This was a battle of will over who got to hold onto Sylvain, the stone or Hubert, and only one could win. “Come on, let him go, let him _live_.” With that he risked the final blast of dark magic even though he was keenly aware he was dancing on a knife’s edge. It would kill the stone but it could also just as easily kill the holder.

The crest loosened. In a rush, Hubert pinched the bloody, spiky stone and pulled it out, barely looking at it as he cast it aside. It had a glow like a relic about it that was fading as it twitched upon the table. It’s inhuman shriek was shrinking now to a whimper. Like any wretched parasite a crest stone could not live long without a host.

Hubert cared not for the stone. The Agarthan manual was obsessed with them, keeping them alive and primed for use. Instead, Hubert focused on Sylvain as he poured a concoction right into the open chest cavity, tossed asside the bloody stretchers and squeezed the edges of Sylvain’s sternum back together. He began the one faith spell in his repertoire. Hubert shut his eyes and whispered a rare and desperate prayer.

Sylvain’s motions slowed and then stopped as Hubert’s magic faded.

The stone was dead and Hubert was sure his patient was too. Sylvain looked too pale, felt too cold, to come back from this. Hubert felt the cruel pull of mourning dropping like a weight in his gut as he stared at the ugly new scar splashed across the once perfect chest.

Then Sylvain sucked in a rattling gasping breath as his eyes shot open. He pulled against his restraints and convulsed as Hubert rushed to his side in disbelief that he was in fact still alive. He felt light headed at the realization this had worked.

Hubert’s hand was still hot and slick with blood as he grabbed Sylvain by the jaw. “Look at me Gautier,” ordered Hubert in the voice he used on the battlefield. Sylvain’s wide panicked eyes locked in on Hubert’s face. “You’re done, it’s out.”

Sylvain was still making the most awful wet breathing noises as the smile split across his face. “Really?” Here with blood splashed down his front and on the brink of death was the happiest Hubert had ever seen Sylvain.

Hubert nodded as he released Sylvain’s face and worked on undoing the restraints. The next order of business was plucking off the juicy well fed leeches. Sylvain was ashen and shivering as Hubert unceremoniously draped a rough spun blanket over him.

“I do in fact know heal,” said Hubert as he watched Sylvain running his shaky fingers over his new scar. It did not look that bad, considering the severity of the cut just how poor Hubert was at faith spells. “How do you feel?”

“Cold,” said Sylvain in a hoarse voice. “Like I’m bruised inside. It hurts to breathe.”

Hubert hummed in agreement with the assessment as he began preparing a wash basin to clean Sylvain up. There were little red circles marring his skin where the leeches had been and a whole mess of blood caught in his chest hairs. Sylvain’s eyes were trained on the now inert stone which no longer trembled on the table and had lost all its orange aura.

“That’s it, that’s all it was?” asked Sylvain as he picked it up and examined its rough edges where the crest had been clinging to his heart.

“It’s not especially impressive on its own is it?” mused Hubert as he looked at the wretched thing. He wondered if Edelgard had developed two stones, and if she’d ever agree to such a risky procedure. Perhaps with this success case she might let Hubert try.

“I always thought it would be bigger, more grand,” said Sylvain as he set it back down.

“It’s only a minor crest,” said Hubert with a scoff as his heart rate began to calm back down. “And clearly it’s nothing without you.”

Sylvain pulled the blanket around himself and stared at Hubert, “So, what now?”

“What do you mean?” asked Hubert, confused by the question. He was sure he’d gotten all forty-six of the leeches, and there was nothing left but to go home and never speak of this with each other again. He wrung out his bloodied washcloth in the basin and reached for a fresh one to dry off his crimson stained hands.

“I guess I have to tell people don’t I, that I’m different?” asked Sylvain. “That I’m finally just me.”

Hubert looked him over. Sylvain was still annoyingly handsome, asking stupid questions, and wearing a shit eating grin despite the grave mood in the room. “You seem the same to me,” said Hubert with an indifferent shrug. He picked up the stone, “This never made you who you are.” He let it drop to the floor. “Let them burn it with the rest of this horrible place.”

“You really think I should just leave it behind?” asked Sylvain as he stared at the little piece of himself that Hubert had just so carelessly cast aside.

“On second thought I suppose we’ll want some proof,” grumbled Hubert as he pulled out a handkerchief to pluck the object up. He found a nearby specimen jar and dropped the crest in. “Here, a souvenir,” said Hubert as he pressed the jar containing the strange token into Sylvain’s hands. Hubert paused and straightened up, “Consider it a reminder of where you’ve been, and where you’re going.”

“And where would that be?” asked Sylvain. He was giving him a look that Hubert just couldn’t quite pin down. He was probably just delirious from being split open and stuck back together.

Hubert forced his natural frown to soften as he looked at his patient. “Well first we’ll go to the surface, where if you’ll allow me I’d like to properly clean you up and get you some warm food. The next few days will be difficult, we’ll have to keep a close eye on your wounds and make sure there is no infection,” explained Hubert.

“You’re planning on nursing me back to health?” asked Sylvain with an amused look that Hubert longed to rub off his face.

“Well I hardly think you can care for yourself in this sorry state,” said Hubert as he hoped Gautier would not read too much into it. “I simply wish to monitor you for negative side effects for the report I’m writing on your case.” He began to pack up his tools. “Then we’ll head back to Enbarr when you’re well enough to ride. You’ll show off your successful surgery, and then I imagine you’ll go off to Sreng and do whatever it is people do there.”

“They sometimes have dinner together, and share drinks, their thoughts, and beds,” said Sylvain. Hubert let out a small sound of disbelief. Clearly losing his crest had done nothing to Sylvain. He was exactly the same by Hubert’s measure. “If you would like to find out for yourself, you can join me if you’d like,” finished Sylvain.

Hubert’s jaw clenched at the implications. He was still unsure whether their encounter last night or the surgery this morning was the bigger horror show. Sylvain gave Hubert a weak smile, “I promise I won’t invite anyone else like last time. I’ll actually wait until you’re ready.”

Hubert focused on packing up the things he’d be taking for reference if he ever had to do this again. He ignored the subtle burning on his ears as Sylvain sat in patient silence waiting for a response. If this was a cruel joke then Sylvain was hiding it flawlessly. Perhaps though, it was not a jest at all. Objectively it felt real enough for Hubert to reconsider the offer.

Finally Hubert cleared his throat, “I suppose if I am not needed in the capital I could conceivably come along. I will not pretend I have ever desired to see more of the north, but what you’ve proposed does not seem like a complete waste of my time.” Hubert extended his hand and helped Sylvain from the great slab table. “But first, let me take care of you, properly.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Lacekyoko1138 for reading over a draft of this and giving me some feedback!


End file.
